大象传媒

The Letter

I felt I would like to write something about my wartime experiences, but as I was only a child then, I have decided to write this on behalf of my mother. On reading it back, it sounds so sad, which it was, especially for her, but for us kids, there were good times, and funny times as well. I don't know if this is the kind of thing you are looking for but I do know that for women in war, it is never easy.

In our case, my mother had no family of her own. She was English, born in the south coast town of Weymouth, Dorset. She came to live in Australia as a child. My father's family gave her no support at all, so she lived a 'go it alone' lifestyle. This turned out to be much harder than she had ever imagined. When she left our lives, she left a gaping hole in our hearts that has never really healed. I have tried over the years to trace her, through the Salvation Army, Red Cross and Social Security all to no avail.

War brings out the best and worst in people: And in the case of wives and widows, there are no medals for bravery, no recognition for the sacrifice, and no Last Post played for dead dreams. Only the day to day living and the fear that life will never be as it was before.

We don't have headstones for either of our parents. We never gave our father, a Father's Day present after 1940, and Mother's Day is always remembered with great sadness. But, I mustn't complain. My life has been full and happy. I have a large, loving family and I can look back at my sixty three years and know that the war years and the years after, taught me tolerance, self reliance, self respect and pride in everything I did. Someone up there likes me. What more could I want?

The Story

I was a naive child of eight when World War Two began and by the time it ended in 1945, I was a mature fourteen year old. Our world then was a happy place, we lived in a small weatherboard house in an inner suburb of Sydney. Our father went to work each day, and our mother stayed home caring for five children and the house. She was a quiet, shy person and in 1939, she was thirty two years old. She was a very attractive woman with blonde hair and brown eyes and despite having borne five children, she still had a slim figure. She had a graceful, ladylike way about her and was soft spoken. I'd never known her to raise her voice in anger.

In this safe, happy world of ours, we couldn't possibly know that some maniac on the other side of the world, and in a country we'd never even heard of, was getting ready to disrupt the life we loved so much. He was to plunge us into a dark and sad place, that would leave us with memories, that even now fifty years on, come back to haunt us. I would like my mother to tell you her story of the war years, of how she struggled to pay rent, buy food and clothing for five growing children whilst in the midst of all the rationing. Of how my father's army pay was never enough to make ends meet. Of how towards the end of each pay day, the best she could manage was fresh bread and dripping with lots of pepper and salt. Perhaps she would tell you of the awful jobs she was forced to take, like the one in the steam laundry where she carried heavy lined baskets from one place to another. She was on her feet all day long, perspiring in the hot steamy atmosphere. Like the job in the shabby hamburger cafe, where she washed dishes for hours on end.

She might tell you of the lonely nights she spent after we'd all gone to bed. Perhaps she'd tell you how she felt when the letter came from the War Department. 'Missing in action' it read. 'Presumed P.O.W.' But she never knew for sure, not then. She was never sure if she was still a wife, or whether she was a widow. I'm not sure if she would tell you about the smooth talking, smartly dressed salesman she met one day, who flattered her and made her feel young, attractive and desirable again. A man who took her dancing and brought her gifts. A man who moved into our cosy little world and ruined our lives forever.

She wouldn't tell you that after a while he came home drunk, bashed her up and broke her nose and ribs. She wouldn't tell you that her first drink made her forget her troubles and she wouldn't tell you that she drank every night to drown her sorrows; or that alcohol became for her, a crutch which eventually caused her to neglect the children. And when the rent became too hard to find, we moved into a dismal two roomed flat riddled with Cockroaches.

Probably, she'd tell you how ashamed and sad she felt when she left us in a children's' home while she went into hospital to have major surgery. If she could, she'd tell you how she wanted to start a new life away from the city. We moved to a small town on the Central Coast of N.S.W. Here she took a job cooking in a pub.

In 1944, another letter arrived from the War Department. It began, 'We regret to inform you.' So, after years of hell on the Burma Railway and other places as a P.O.W. of the Japanese, my father was dead. He was torpedoed by the Americans. The 'Hell Ship' he was being transported to Japan on, gave no indication that there were P.O.W.'s on-board. She'd tell you just what a wonderful swimmer and life-saver he used to be at Bondi Beach before the war. Then she'd probably give a strange laugh and say how ironic life really can be. She'd tell you how she married again; disastrously to an alcoholic. She would tell you how much she loved her children but how hard her life had become. So much so, that she reached a point where it just became too much and she left.

The two youngest children, were placed in a Masonic Boarding School as my father had been a member of the Masonic Lodge. The middle child was made a 'Ward of the State'. A neglected, uncontrollable child they called her. The two eldest aged fifteen and sixteen, were given 'live-in' jobs in Sydney. That was over forty years ago.

She now has grandchildren and great grandchildren. Yes, she would probably tell you her story, but then again, perhaps her pain is too great. Maybe she has pushed it to the back of her mind, then again, perhaps she is dead. I have told you her story because her photo still sits upon my desk. I see it every day and I miss her still.

Betty Carter.
Lake Cathie, Australia.

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